Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (95 page)

Marik would ask Tollaf when they returned to
Kingshome, assuming they escaped being slaughtered before then.

Why didn’t his etheric orb rip away the beasts’ skin
to destroy the tissue and bone beneath?  Could thicker hides actually repel the
mage attack to such an extent?

They repelled our swords well enough.  Only the
strongest or highly skilled among us were able to wound them.  What in the
hells are they, and where did they spring from?  I can’t believe they are
natural.  They are certainly being controlled the way Tollaf said sorcerers can
control the Devils they summon.  Are they actually Devils then?  Or not?

Cork had adamantly proclaimed the beasts to be the
caretakers of the damned, quoting several ridiculous religious passages he’d
either collected from a raving priest or made up on the spot. 
When there is
no room left in any hell, the dead sinners will walk the world with demons to
shepherd their damnation.

Pure nonsense, and Marik would have scoffed at anyone
saying so, not simply because it came from Cork.  Still, the blasted man had
been caught up in his own wild theory when they left the clearing behind that
morning.  His dramatic delivery of that single line made the phrase repeat
through Marik’s mind, distracting him further when he wanted to concentrate on
other matters.  He shivered once at the mere thought of a true hell-born
creature wandering loose.

As terrifying as these beasts were, they were mortal. 
They bled, and they died.  They just took more killing than most creatures
usually required.  No.  No demon nor sorcerer’s Devil be these.

His thoughts chased each other until startled shouts
snapped him from his musings.  He first thought the yelling came from Kineta
with her unit in the lead.  Instead the words were unintelligible, echoing from
their right.  Black figures shouted in foreign speech, their meaning obvious. 
They had noticed the mercenaries and were frantically calling for others to
come.

Every man swore, except Sloan.  Two candlemarks
earlier and the black soldiers would have found easy prey.  But since then, the
slow walk had worked most of the fatigue from them.  They still felt the dull
aches yet they moved at a level closely approaching their normal agility.

Marik drew his sword, silently expounding on his
curses.  The beasts were problem enough.  What new horrors would these strange
warriors prove to be?

Kineta readied her unit to meet the attack as eleven
additional soldiers jumped from the trees.  Surprisingly, they stopped dead in
their tracks thirty feet away from her unit’s swords, alien battle cries fading
on their lips.  It took Marik fully five heartbeats to understand.

The trees that had prevented Kineta from noticing them
had also hidden the Fourth Unit from their sight.  This small force had leapt
without realizing the trailing unit meant there were twice as many men as they
assumed.

Quick, foreign shouts were overlapped by Kineta
ordering a fast attack.  Seven new soldiers ran from cover before the First
closed the distance.  How many other black soldiers were hiding in the trees? 
Marik prayed there wasn’t one bastard of an ambush waiting for the First Unit.

Sloan leapt after, hesitating only long enough to bark
a command to join the battle.  Marik followed in the pack’s midst.  His
strength working was in place and he was ready to dash between these unknown
warriors, to aid any King faltering from lingering exhaustion.  He knew that
even at their best, his shieldmates might fall before this challenge.  His
superior skill and enhanced strength would protect them from too great an
adversary.

It quickly became apparent that would be unnecessary
this day.  As strange as these soldiers appeared, the mercenaries met them on
equal footing.  Kineta killed the first after deflecting a sword stroke meant
to behead her.  The sergeant’s scimitar cut back in a flash of moonlight off an
oasis pool, followed by a familiar scream.  Human…a man…dying from a lethal
blow.

They might cloth themselves in bizarre garb and odd
armor, but they were still men.  Men the mercenaries could deal with.  After
two days of fright and terror, sensations they were ill-suited for, the Kings
were eager to flip this rock over.

Marik meant to intercept an armored figure who circled
a pine tree.  Dietrik got there first.  He wielded his rapier and dagger with
merciless skill.  His first thrust darted faster than either Marik or the foe
could see.  The blade skimmed off the shoulder guard.

Though obviously startled, the soldier kept his
reactions honed.  He quickly lashed out with his sword, a longer blade akin to
the hand-and-a-half Marik had once wielded.

Dietrik knew not to block the heavier blade directly. 
His rapier would lose such a fight.  Instead he directed the opposing blade
sideways, then slashed with his dagger.  Clutched in his left hand, the
main-gauche had enough guard that Dietrik punched the steel sword rather than
meeting it blade-to-blade.

This left a large opening with the soldier’s sword
forced to one side.  Dietrik slashed from the side, since the defensive
maneuvering made a slice easier than a thrust.  It looked like a sure kill.

Except the black soldier displayed an interesting trait
of his armor.  A flat protrusion from the couter armoring his elbow extended
upward eight inches.  When his arm was rigid, it fit snuggly to his upper arm’s
backside.  The soldier lowered his arm while bending the elbow, extending the
long, thin plate.

Dietrik’s blade rang off the steel.  The impact forced
the soldier’s lower arm forward as the odd plate was pushed back.  His rapier
arced over the man’s shoulder.  Interesting.

If Dietrik thought so, it only sharpened his battle
instincts.  He uncorked his speed, using both blades to put the black soldier
on the defensive.  Marik watched blows deflect off his blade, his armor’s steel
portions and from the elbow protrusions on both arms.

The soldier proved a fair fighter, returning blows by
taking advantage of slight opportunities the moment they appeared.  Dietrik
dodged three and deflected a fourth.  Still, despite the man’s skill, he only
returned one attack for every five or six of Dietrik’s, and would have quickly
fallen but for his strange armor.

When Dietrik thrust squarely into the leather-covered
chest, Marik believed the battle won.  Surprisingly, the soldier only grunted
harshly, rotated so the blow’s remaining force slid across his chest’s surface,
then reached for his adversary.

Dietrik dashed back several steps, his face a mask of
concentration Marik recognized and understood.  His friend loathed surprises in
a fight.  This fight especially.  After feeling useless since their first
encounter with the beasts, Dietrik had been questioning his value as a
fighter.  He refused to fail against this human enemy.  This battle would
prove, one way or the other, his place as a warrior in future fights to come.

After a fast battlefield evaluation, Dietrik charged. 
His rapier thrust in an impaling stroke, his dagger held near his throat, ready
to block any movement from the enemy’s sword.

The soldier, winded, swung for Dietrik’s head. 
Dietrik crouched with his final step and the wider blade passed inches above
his head.  His rapier point struck hard, piercing the leather with only minor
hesitation this time.

Dietrik rammed the blade home with a twist, only
withdrawing it three inches when the soldier fell.  Pulling it free required
significant strength.  The body’s suction and the tough leather were reluctant
to loosen their grip on the steel.  He stepped on the corpse’s shoulder,
tugging until he recovered his rapier.

Marik smiled at him briefly before both glanced
around.  Fifteen black soldiers were clearly dead.  Four Kings lay on the
ground nursing injuries that looked minor from what Marik could see.  That
declared one truth about these strangers.  They may control fearsome
beast-monsters, but their soldiers were no better than Galemar’s.  Man-for-man,
the Crimson Kings were the best fighters to be found.

The five remaining decided they were unlikely to
prevail.  They fled.  Two were cut down from behind while a third received a
crossbow quarrel through his thigh.  He fell, screaming.

Marik jumped after the other two.  He could not allow
them to escape!  They might be running to join a larger force nearby.

Before they ran ten steps, Colbey appeared from thin
air.  His sudden materialization from the empty forest shocked the two into
stumbling.  Fast as a diving hawk, Colbey sliced with his blade.  He took both
in the same breath with wild slashes that hacked into their less protected
areas.  While they hit the dirt, he reared back, chopping down on them as
though he wielded an axe rather than a sword.

He chopped twice with a savage fury that shocked
Marik.  His eyes were wide, sweat rimming them, and his lips pulled back in an
animal snarl.

The last blow bit deep into the twitching body. 
Colbey lifted his sword to strike anew.  A bloody, vertical arc flew from the
silver steel.  He paused, as if suddenly coming to an awareness, or as if he
listened to a conversation taking place in the next room.  His gaze shifted to
take note of the other men.

That pure hatred unnerved Marik.  Colbey had always
been the epitome of self-control, excepting that one occasion when he’d already
been exhausted both mentally and physically from his long journey into
Tullainia.  Seeing him in such a rage, and then looking around as if only then
seeing the others…his concerns regarding Colbey flooded back.  How did
this
fit with everything else?

Again Marik realized he could do nothing until he
talked it over with someone who knew more than he did.  Nobody had appointed
him Colbey’s guardian, after all.  He only felt concern because the scout had
become, not exactly a friend per se, but at least a close acquaintance.  And
because Colbey’s aura troubled him.

Nothing I can do about it.  If Colbey is acting
strange because his aura is suffering from an odd sickness, then Tollaf can
explain it and fix it.  Or if he can’t, then surely a Healer can.  Why doesn’t
that old bastard ever bother to teach me about things like this?  Things I
actually need to know!

He walked back to where Dietrik stood, examining his
kill.  Marik studied the corpse as well.  A quick, cursory inspection revealed
much.

The man’s armor was a peculiar blend of heavy plate
and light armor.  He wore a black leather jerkin and equally black leather
pants.  Bracers and rerebracers protected the arms, along with those strange
plates protruding from the couter.  Actually, Marik decided, the plates were
really blades without edges that extended from the elbows.

The combed helm was what made them look vaguely like a
badger at a distance.  The helm had a hinged face plate that could be raised. 
Normally when the armorer added a keel-shaped ridge over the helm’s skullcap to
increase defensive strength, he kept it under a half-inch in thickness.  This
helm sported three combs, all front to back, one straight over the top with the
other two halfway from it to the ear holes, and all four inches tall.

The dead man also wore a steel collar that resembled
an elaborate necklace instead of an oversized ring, as well as cuisses and
greeves to protect both legs.  His boots were similar to an armored knight’s,
except crafted from numerous bands layered atop the previous like scales.  Most
curious, all in all.  Why only cover the head, arms and legs in heavy armor? 
Why had all the steel pieces been painted black?  To match the black leather,
or did it represent a deeper meaning?

Marik could see that the bracers, greeves and other
limb protections did not curve completely around to the back.  Rather they were
plates shaped to fit the limb’s front and held in place with leather straps. 
He started flipping the corpse, wanting to see how armored the soldier’s rear
might be.  A tortured scream stiffened his spine immediately.

He spun, as did every other man.  What he saw made
nausea roil through his stomach.

The crossbow-shot soldier remained among the living. 
Lying on the ground, with his sword fallen several feet away, he had ceased to
be a significant threat.  No one had taken the trouble to kill him since
wounded prisoners make good information sources, and they had several hundred
questions to ask.  Everyone left him to his own devices through unspoken
understanding while they tended to after-battle needs.  When the sergeants were
ready, they would take charge…until Colbey found him.

Marik saw the scout had plunged his sword through the
man’s palm and stood over the screaming invalid, twisting the blade in cruel
satisfaction.  His eyes were no longer wide.  They were narrowed in angry
intensity, his teeth grinding.  A malicious light danced in his those orbs.

The scream devolved into sobs when Colbey pulled his
sword free.  Marik barely noticed how every mercenary stood transfixed.  He
could hardly believe what Colbey had done.  Mercs were neither gentle nor
refined, but he would never have believed anyone in the band would delight in
such torture.  Not even Beld.

Colbey plunged his sword into the man’s shoulder, his
lips pulling further back into a feral grin while the man howled.  From several
yards away, despite the ragged shrieking, Marik could hear the sword tip scrape
across the man’s bones.